Fair Fae fairer lies
by Whispurrs
Summary: Dark horror AU. WARNING :adult themes and NOT by any means intended despite its non explicit nature. 'Something glistens, a ring no less, so intricate and fine I almost find myself forgiving my lover, my fiancé, my murderer; Jareth...'


**Fair Fae Fairer lies…**

**I wanted to create a fic where Jareth was evil, and although I thought it terribly unique it's almost become another cliché, but I tried to avoid that with a twist that is extremely dark and a quite AU**

**This is a practise in horror, and so you are meant to find it as disturbing as I myself find it; i.e. not for those of you who are sensitive to horror, although this is but for two words psychological.**

**It is most certainly not what you think it will be, for that I hope… and perhaps a guarantee…?**

Even Fae know love when they see it, and know its power…that is the silliest statement to contain a grain of truth I have ever heard, but like I have just assured you, it contains a grain of truth none the less.

Said grain is that they are perceptive to it; so very perceptive, from what I could tell you, as I am doing so.

However, the lie concealed within it is that they know its power.

Does it even have one; after all the power of love did not stop Cleopatra's suicide; Victoria's reign of black after her husband's passing, nor, lest we dare forget them, Romeo and Juliet, who, in the turbulent brilliance of adolescent love decided death would be their only salvation, when all they brought up on themselves was the Reaper's grim claim.

But who of all are they to know this?

They may have brilliant eyes and smiles, fit to draw you in, but beauty alone cannot be culture; however exquisite said gorgeousness is…

No, if there is one thing I will prevent myself from doing it is from shedding a tear at_ that_, that can take my blood and drown me in it for all I care, but damn heaven itself to hell if one trickle of salt and water shall fall from my eye; even when it is invincible I will keep my pride.

Stiff upper lip, as the saying goes and all that, however hard it may be for some.

I am digressing, but why do I care, this is a parchment for sanity not for entertainment, and still with the profound lack of audience I find myself a stickler for showing the facts and yet veiling them; I am impossible, in far more ways than one alone.

I have given in to all my sins, why not that one as well, I'm sure I have many a time before in this forsaken loop.

He has his eye on her; a pretty little thing, no doubt, so harsh by maturity, but eminently more vulnerable, whatever this turns out I will be fun.

Yes, even in its most hellish depths it is fun; and as I have cast away my morals with my hope, long since bidding them both goodbye, I can admit it now; even, no, if I am to fully give into my animal I must say it; especially the screams, those ominous wails of the descent.

I sleep far better with them, the hideous lullaby that they provide, a lullaby none the less, dragging me back to the moment, but dear vision, or lie of a listener, I cannot spoil it for you, lest you lose your appetite for anything that may come; that is why I have left out the correct terminology…

I hoped for something, hard to grasp as it was, I did expect something from her, another triumph, the second uttering of words that worked for the amusement of a miracle maker, _something _; every step up, every build up to it seemed so large to fade away, mere whispers in the wind.

Still, how can we not love the wind; the engulfing breeze, oxygen and water combined to make our pitiful version of heaven when it comes.

She has turned as expected, after two months her never shaking nor shuddering gargantuan resolve broken by a fickle look here, a fond smile there, and of course fair sex; oh yes, I smile, that is quite inevitable.

Such a shame she was turned to putty, her defiance of the fairy tale a most warming and joyous occasion, trading in her diamond studded gown of luxuriant dreams for something far more bejewelled.

Such a wise girl.

Needless to say, not wiser or keeping wisdom at all in any form with her increased age, losing that spectacular and so often misplaced armour of fantasy.

She is in it, but has so far has only tasted the sweet and knows nothing of the bitter; the glorious fruit which after its forbidden eating was far too succulent to have been forbidden at all for any reason other than damned and bitter malice, probably of one who had morals too high to taste it; quite a tragedy really.

When people lose that, they think they lose all that is silly and infantile in the world, instead they invite all that is corrupt; not of course to say those with it are pure, nor of course the armour can't be corroded .

Once again, she whirls in it, the gown fit for a princess, no, a queen.. ah, such nostalgic times…

This time, it is a very different kind of fear; that which is a hunger for the thing it cowers before, but the cowering is over, for a silly little girl, not a girl whose arguments and dreadful choices rush through her head with the music, the angelic song, and the poetic dance.

Each harsh word, words of accusation and truth alike pulls her smile down, burdens it with weights.

The King however has commanded it is alright, and if even the Goblins which she has had many a comedic run in with respect him; of course at given times, then what right has she not to, least of all when he has shown her his life, tainted as it is, all the stains of tears turning it far more beautiful, with, if she were to be honest the sheer infamy of her conquest drawing her in too.

No, she smiles, with any right remembrance it was she who was his, and she'd have to call it love after all those things in dreadful splendour.

Even those Goblins find themselves to be swayed by the mood, she noted; and that was a great achievement, far too great to pass up a reward, and he always wanted rewards, did he not?

The feelings, if so, were very much returned.

A sweet scene, direct from the childhood volumes of simpering girls with plaited hair and dreams only of wedding rings and Lords; and it was true, in so far as she knows even the Goblins were moved.

Except, at the risk of revealing myself before; if I ever do , have a cause, they are most assuredly not Goblins, although the correct wording has never been made for their current state.

They were at least once orphans.

Dear, dear listener, whether or not you are real or my dream I can see your face tangled and warped in shock and horror, before it subsides into realisation.

The logic is that they are well, if unorthodoxly care for, and the bolder of you may say that being under a king's care, even in a different form could be preferable to the system.

Whatever you think, I am right.

After all, what fun is there in creating imaginary friends if you cannot be superior to them?

What I am right about is this; they were robbed.

Robbed of their chance for learning, for love even; for basic speech above incoherency in some cases; and if it is further on a designated script of allowed phrases and words.

Those that do not comply, you ask, on the edge of your nervous seat; the more disillusioned of you thinking it will be torture, the rest of you hoping to God against the odds that it is not.

It is silence.

Not an uttered word, even in babble.

Not, considering what Kings have done and what he could obviously do the very highest of evils; I say to you then, imaginary_ fiends _think of not being able to utter a single word of love, hate politics or mere chatter, not because your mouth can't form them, but because a force, dark and powerful and ominous and as old as the wounds of time sucks it out of you, and tragedy befalls those who manage to overpower it.

Their laughs and acts are entertainment, after dinner shows in which not a single tear must be shed; and some of them believe in the chuckles and antics, believe in the dance and song; some of them have to.

Once upon a time there were true Goblins; hulking monstrosities caked in dirt and loathing, hair growing in tufts that lagged onto the floor in length.

A crown prince didn't want those to play with; would you?

A prince had to get what he wanted after all, by the orders of royalty.

So his new breed was created.

That's your lesson in history, culture, princes and how dances can and will conceal evil so if you value your life avoid them like the plague itself.

What a nice Aesop, isn't it; I rather think it would make a lovely fable.

Damn.

The light, it is shut, darkness flooding in the crevices once again; the darkness is my home and sanctuary of course, but to never venture from it I fear is making me quite insane.

It must be of some importance, even the chatter is muffled.

He thinks that knowing is the best form of torture, or as he dubs it punishment, which of course with his far too keen mind is the truth, and seeing how much he loves his justice only the biggest of distractions can take him from its ideal form.

It has been an hour since my last thoughts, perhaps more; shutting yourself even from your mind is easy if you know how, and better for corrupting it.

I hope one day that I may not even think, or at least I would if I really could reunite with that horrid word.

The light is not just here it is widening; surely God would not save us… no, the form is not God's, but an intrigued form, a form we can help.

I would loathe helping her, but we also have the opportunity to kill her, in a most delightful way, so I decide to join the mass; we will.

I am not alone, dear listener, did I fool you?

I think not, that is however immaterial compared to what we are to do.

As she creeps in, curious little Alice that she still is we see her look of horror; she has already seen our glory, vulgarity to her, but we cannot choose, we were simply left in the state Jareth wanted, masses of the female form, especially as it is must scare the poor darling.

Good.

She is a fool; life does not take kindly to them.

Something glistens, a ring no less, so intricate and fine I almost find myself forgiving my lover, my fiancé, my murderer; Jareth.

It is not me alone, all our blank eyes and stained and shredded limbs want that ring, want to steal its glistening and trade her life with ours, so we can be back in bed with the gorgeous trickster.

Silence indicates we should not tell her a thing, we have a place in her nightmares as she does ours and for that satanically gorgeous ring she should perish with us, why is it_ she_ is the only one to have a chance to evade her fate?

No, we will leave her with nothing.

Eyes of hate and fire turn to soft, slow guilt, and the whispers are raised.

I will stand against this, even if I stand alone!

I want to help her, somehow, I really do- forsake these emotions.

I sob, my wailing filling our prison, the prison of hundreds of women who fell in love with their fantasies not knowing the evil behind them, one or two even royalty themselves; united by the only thing that could ever unite such an odd band of people, death.

Others take my crying as their cue, and screams are scratching at the air.

Sarah, if that is her name is paralysed, wanting to leave but unable to.

We need something coherent to be saints instead of sinners, to go to the good place we do not deserve; so in improbable unison we warn with all our might and power:

''Meathieon Tyerig Fae.''

He has taken our tongues from us as well, how were we to know, never using them before… that is of no importance, we cannot let this deter us, perhaps our sheer will can translate it, with the power true love conveys in fairy tales.

''Meathieon Tyerig Fae; Meathieon Tyerig Jareth!''

**Author's Note**

**The language they spoke in was made up Fae, not meant to resemble any real languages; and it means beware fair Fae, beware fair Jareth.**

**This was based on Bluebeard, but to tell you this in the beginning or it would spoil the story; for those of you unfamiliar it is a story where a woman who is getting married to him finds a vision of his dead wives on her wedding night, but this is told from the mad perspective of the dead, which is done far less.**

**The woman addresses you as listeners since I found it impossible to use the more conventional term dear readers since I didn't know how she'd find a book to write in.**

**As always, reviews are very welcome.**


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